If there's one thing Jupe's attuned to, it's the sensation of eyes on him—that prickle of awareness, the rush of, sure, importance as something indescribable opens up between you and the viewer.
Unfortunately, the woman catches him as he's slamming the door to his car, half-stomping around the hood for another confrontation with the windshield. Not attuned to much of anything besides the sweat beading under his scarf and the ice stubbornly clinging to the glass. He brandishes the magazine—a flash of color—but it droops in his hand. As if to rub it in, a soggy page slumps to the ground.
“This is so stupid,” he mutters—not loud enough for her to hear, unless she's come closer. But she'll probably hear the next part, directed skyward with incoherent frustration: “It's September!”
SO SORRY FOR THE ANCIENT TAG, feel free to: 1. ignore or 2. bump the timeline to smth more current!
Unfortunately, the woman catches him as he's slamming the door to his car, half-stomping around the hood for another confrontation with the windshield. Not attuned to much of anything besides the sweat beading under his scarf and the ice stubbornly clinging to the glass. He brandishes the magazine—a flash of color—but it droops in his hand. As if to rub it in, a soggy page slumps to the ground.
“This is so stupid,” he mutters—not loud enough for her to hear, unless she's come closer. But she'll probably hear the next part, directed skyward with incoherent frustration: “It's September!”
(He draws out the "September.")